Thousand Miles
by vigirl
Summary: Grissom does the unimaginable by sending Sara the plant, but we never get to see her reaction. If it had the effect he hoped for, why did it take his lovely beauty comment in PNN to bring back that high-wattage smile?
1. Default Chapter

TITLE:            Thousand Miles

AUTHOR:       Alison Nixon

RATING:         G                     

CATEGORY:  SRA, G/S UST

SPOILERS:     None, just BoP and PNN         

SUMMARY:   Grissom does the unimaginable by sending Sara the plant, but we never get to see her reaction.  If it had the effect he hoped for, why did it take his lovely beauty comment in PNN to bring back that high-wattage smile? 

DISCLAIMERS: CSI belongs to CBS and Alliance-Atlantis Productions. No   
infringement intended.  And no, I won't receive any profit from this story.

FEEDBACK: Of course!! You can always email me at anixon72@hotmail.com

ARCHIVAL: I'd be thrilled, just send me an email to let me know where my little friend will reside.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  Yeah, you've heard this before.  It's my first time doing this sort of thing, but CSI, G/S, and all of the great fanfic I've seen have inspired me to dive in.  I just had to resolve this lingering question in my mind about BoP and PNN.

******

As she gazed at herself in the small mirror attached to the inside of her locker, Sara was grateful that her eyes didn't give her away too badly.  Normally any redness stood out against her pale skin, but it seemed that last night's tears had not left too noticeable a trace.  Small favors, she noted.  She twisted her lips into what she hoped would pass for a smile.  Her emotions were still rubbed raw from her blowup with Grissom, but she'd be damned before she would let that show.   She could brood as much as she liked, but her face would be clear.  She straightened her slumped shoulders, made her face a blank, and headed into the hall.

She turned toward the break room, already edgy at the thought of running into Grissom.  Until the other night, that prospect would have given her a pleasurable thrill.  Now it just weighed her down, as she replayed the scene in her mind for the thousandth time.  She had been waiting for him to return and see the LOA request on his desk.  When she was sure he'd had enough time to read it through, she went in, arms folded defensively.  She had envisioned many scenarios of how that conversation would go, but what had actually happened still baffled her. _"We have the best lab in the country. Everyone here respects you…"_

He had been so sure of himself and his ability to get around her—as if she was some little child who would back down as soon as the adult in the room challenged her perspective. When she didn't back down, she could see something shift behind his eyes as he considered her.  She had seen that look on Grissom's face before during their roughest moments.  It always made her shiver a little.  She felt that tremor again just before she turned to go, and so when he called her name her heart rose in her throat.  _I really thought he was going to say something real, something to show he was as unhappy as I was_.  Instead he merely changed tactics.  "_Hey Sara? The lab needs you here."  _

I could have cried.  I realized then that it was hopeless to wait for him anymore.  If that was the best he could do in the face of my threat to leave, he couldn't possibly care for me.  I might as well be in love with myself.  

So it was time to move on, which meant saying goodbye to the others.  She was still unsure of what she would say when they asked what was going on.  They certainly wouldn't buy her newfound interest in the federal system, but the work environment story posed its own problems.  After all, the others could all claim to be fed up with Grissom's poor people skills too. If they weren't leaving, why should she?  Good question, but not one she was prepared to answer. It was humiliating enough to long for a man who ignored you; the whole world needn't know about it as well.  In her bitterness, Sara imagined that the others would have a good laugh at her expense if they knew.  Well, that wasn't really fair to Nick or Catherine, she admitted, but she knew Warrick would relish her predicament.  He already suspected she had feelings for Grissom, anyway.   Sara frowned. Yeah, that was just the perfect cap to Grissom blowing me off in the lab--Warrick getting in my face when it turns out I was right anyway--that girl's father torched the victim's apartment.  There I was filling out a damn leave of absence, and one of my supposed colleagues busts my chops for no reason.  Oh yeah, the feds are sounding better and better…

Lost in thought, she didn't realize that she had arrived at the door of the break room until she nearly passed it.  She hesitated for a moment, and then stepped inside.  Nick and Warrick were sitting at the table, talking quietly with coffee mugs in hand.  They offered subdued hellos, and eyed her warily.  Nick was the first to break the silence.

"So, Sara . . . what's going on?  Is it true that you're leaving?"

Here we go, she sighed silently.  "Uh, yeah, I…I put in for a leave of absence."

"_Why_?"

"Because I need a change.  I've enjoyed being here and learned a lot, but it's just time to move on." She paused awkwardly.  "You know how it is."

"Actually no, I don't.  Not this kind of 'moving on.'  There has to be a reason, Sara.  You've spent more time in this lab than any of us over the past year and now you're just out of here?  Come on!"

"Yeah, I thought the teacher's pet was always the last to leave," Warrick smiled, but his eyes were unreadable.  

Sara's lips tightened.  She had hardly expected warm fuzzies of concern from Warrick, but she wasn't in the mood for his attitude today.  She thought they'd gotten past her investigation of his gambling, something she had done at Grissom's behest, but he still didn't seem to see her as a friend.  Or at least if he did, it was hard to tell sometimes.

"Look, this is what makes sense for me right now.  I don't know what else you want me to say.  It's just …what it is."  She turned to the coffee machine and busied her hands with pouring out a cup, praying Nick would just let it drop.

"You know what?  I don't know what the problem is, but the least you could do is be honest about your feelings."  

Sara turned sharply.  Where was he going with this?  

"Obviously there's something going on here beyond this moving on crap. I don't know what you're selling, but I'm not buying," he concluded, shaking his head in frustration.  

"Hey Sara!"  

"Hi Alex," Sara mustered up a small smile for the lab's receptionist, who suddenly appeared at the door.  "Hey, what's that?"

"It's for you.  Delivery guy just dropped it off at the desk." Alex smiled, holding out a small plant.   "Somebody sure likes you."

Sara stared at her for moment and then came over to take it.  It was stunning—a _Phalaenopsis _orchid with deep burgundy colored, almost purple blooms.  She loved orchids; as a child, she had cultivated them in the ramshackle greenhouse behind her parents' inn.  She couldn't reproduce their natural habitats--tree limbs, rock walls or decaying forest floors, of course.  But she discovered that the marvelous thing about orchids is the way they will produce loveliness even under difficult conditions. Given enough light and air, they will thrive virtually anywhere. The thought that something so delicate could be so adaptable and self-sufficient had always fascinated Sara. 

The specimen she now held was particularly robust, too.  She could tell by the vivid green of its tapered leaves and the thickness of the roots visible through the bark mixture in which it was planted.   Three of its blooms were fully opened, arrayed in a row along the main stem, which curved gently.  There were also three tightly closed buds on the secondary stems.  They would be coaxed out soon enough, though.  Then, after the flowering season was over she could simply re-pot and wait.  That was another great thing about orchids.  They can live indefinitely if properly cared for.  She smiled at the thought, turning the pretty blue bowl in which the plant was potted this way and that in order to admire her little beauty from every angle.      

"So, Sara, who's your friend?" Warrick asked.  He and Nicky came closer to where Sara was standing. 

"Huh? Oh! It's _Phalaenopsis_.  It's a common species of orchid, but this one's color is so unusual, it must be a hybrid. _Brother Oconee_, I think."  She smiled proudly.  "Somebody loved this baby from day one…it takes years to cultivate orchids from seedlings." 

"No, no, I mean, who's your _friend_?"  He gave her a sly grin.  "I thought old Hank ran scared after you dropped that finger beside his dinner." 

Nick chimed in then, eyes wide in mock disbelief. 

"Girl, you've been holding out on us!  Who's the mystery man?  And don't tell us it's from your folks, cause it's not your birthday and parents send FTD, not _orchids_."  

Sara rolled her eyes. "Oh shut up, you two.  For your information, I'm sure that's exactly who it's from. I used to raise orchids near our house when I was a kid.  The last time we spoke I mentioned that I missed taking care of them like I used to."  As she spoke, she put the plant on the table and plucked the little white envelope from its holder.  She slid the card out, preparing to read it aloud and silence the two men.

_From Grissom_.


	2. Part II

*******

She read it again. It _can't_ be, she thought.  Mouth still open, she ran through the possibilities. These guys are messing with me—is it April Fools' already?  No, we're still in February.  But there is simply no way Grissom would…_would he_?

"You look like you've seen a ghost." Nick laughed, and reached over to snatch the card away from her.  

"Hey, watch it!" 

"Ooh, ooh, we want to see too.  I'm sure your '_parents_' won't mind if we see what they wrote to their little girl." 

Sara had to smile—Nicky could be such the annoying little brother sometimes.  

"And that goes double for you, Warrick!  Don't even think about it if you want to keep that hand."  She knew Nick would have given his sidekick the signal to go for the card too.

Warrick put his palms up to hold her off, giving Sara a real smile this time. "Whoa, settle down, Sparky.  This _must_ be good if you're going postal on me.  Come on, you know you want to tell us…"  

When Sara just glared at him, he turned to Nick.

 "Yo, bro—a twenty says it's Hank."

"Oh, for God's…"

"Naw, dude, you're way off.  Double down on it being Greg!  I'm just surprised he'd make such a classy choice!" Nick sniggered.  

"You two need professional help.  Just step aside so my baby can breathe, OK?" 

Sara was actually glad for their banter, since it gave her a chance to recover a bit.  She glanced furtively at the card again—nope, it still read the same way—before she hid it in her back pocket.  The warmth of a furious blush began to stain her cheeks as she backed away from the two men.  She had to be dreaming, right?  Whatever could have possessed the man?  What could it mean?

"Hey, don't you guys have work to do, or something?" she grumbled absentmindedly.  

Warrick shook his head.  "And just think, man. She's leaving just when it's getting interesting." He clapped Nick on the shoulder and they walked out, still snickering.   

Well, that was one word for it, Sara mused. Confusing was more like it.  Does this mean he wants me to stay?  Is it an apology?  T_he man sent me a plant_. _He sent me a plant!_  Surely that was a big deal. But they were talking about Grissom here, so who knew?  All he put on the card was "From Grissom"—pretty dry stuff, even for him.  Maybe he wanted to make sure I didn't get the wrong idea.  But how could I _not_ get the wrong idea?  She sighed and ran the tips of fingers over the plant's soft petals.  Leave it to Grissom to be sweet and still manage to leave me hanging.  Despite the uncertainty, though, just the thought that he picked something out for her set her face aglow.

_I've got to find him—I need to see his face.  Then I'll know, even if he can't quite admit it…_She whirled around to search for Grissom and nearly bowled over Catherine instead, who had approached without her noticing.  

Cath's eyes widened appreciatively. "Wow, will you look at that?  That is just _gorgeous_."  She stepped past Sara and bent down for a closer look.  "Aren't orchids great?" she asked mischievously.

"Oh yeah, they're--amazing," Sara stammered, suddenly embarrassed. Her eyes flickered.  "My, uh, my parents sent this.  They know I love them.  Pretty sweet, huh?"

"Pretty sweet…" Cath murmured, suppressing a giggle.  She could make out the remnants of a telltale blush on Sara's fair skin.  

"You look happy," she drawled teasingly.   

Sara averted her eyes. "Uh…yeah, sure I am."

This is killing me, Cath thought impatiently.  Oh the heck with it, matchmaker's prerogative.  Besides, enquiring minds have got to know. 

"Oh, I can't stand it—just tell me, have you spoken to him yet?"

Sara cocked her head to the side, puzzled.  "Spoken to … what do you mean?"  

"Oh for Pete's sake, Sara, have you spoken to Grissom since you got it?" 

Cath was literally dying for the 411, but Sara sure was making it hard.  They're peas in a pod, she thought and laughed aloud.  In her eagerness, she didn't notice the other woman's startled reaction.

Sara held her breath for a long second.  How the hell would Catherine… It didn't make sense.

"You know?"

Catherine's grin widened conspiratorially. "Yeah, I know.  I'm as amazed as you are that he finally put himself out there.  I guess what he needed was a good kick in the butt, you know?  So, pal that I am, I obliged. That'll teach him to feed me drinks on an empty stomach!"  She laid her hand on Sara's arm.  "Oh, I wish you could have seen his face—it was priceless.  He was so cute about it—he stuttered so much over the sentiment I thought I was going to lose it right there!"  

Catherine choked with laughter.  She soon stopped short at the look on Sara's face, however. Before she could get a word out, Sara stared her down.  

"Let me get this straight, because I want to be sure I understand.  Are you telling me that _you were there_ when Grissom ordered this for me?"

Shit, Catherine swore, I know where she's headed…. "Well, yeah I was, but…"

"You were there, at his place, and somehow my name just popped into the conversation?   Oh, that's right, he needed a 'kick in the butt,' so you gave it to him.  Am I getting this right so far?"  Catherine took a cautious step back from the taller woman, hands raised in protest.  Sara just pressed closer, leaning over her slightly.

"So then it was _your_ idea to have him send me something, is that it?"

"No, Sara, you're misunderstanding—"

"Misunderstanding?  Explain to me what I'm not getting here.  Oh yeah--did you dial the florist's number for him too?  Was _any_ of this his idea?" She was furious.

"Look, honey, take it easy, OK?  It was Grissom's idea, I swear.  All I did, all I did was try to light a fire under him to do something before you walked out of his life.  I shouldn't have said anything to you at all.  I just was just so psyched to see some … progress, you know?"  

She sighed.  "Please don't let this ruin it for you.  He is trying to tell you something, in his own way."  She patted Sara's shoulder gently and gave her a small smile, then quickly slipped out the door.

Sara had barely felt this parting touch; she was shaking too hard to notice.  Her heart was racing--she took a deep breath and exhaled raggedly.  Of course, she thought.  What did I expect?  It had been too incredible to believe anyway.  As if Grissom was capable of reaching out to me on his own, without being nagged into it.  He probably rationalized it as effective supervisory technique—do whatever it takes to keep your unit happy.  After all, hiring a new CSI is so time-consuming and distracts from getting the work done.  Sara's eyes smarted with tears.  _How stupid can I be?_

She had only a few seconds before the tears overwhelmed her, so she hurried down the hall and out of the rear of the building.  The only truly private place she could think of right then was behind the Tahoe's tinted windows.  Her fingers trembled as she jammed the key in the door, forced it open and climbed in.  She slammed the door shut and fell back against the seat.  Her hand moved to massage her temple, where she could feel a headache starting.  

Her emotions were so tangled; she wasn't sure how she felt.  She was angry, of course, disappointed and embarrassed. But as she sat in the vehicle's cocoon, confronted by its artificial quiet, she could admit that she was more hurt than anything.  What kind of man needs someone to pressure him into caring?   Am I so incomprehensible to him that he couldn't figure out what to do on his own? I tried so hard not to just vent at him in his office.  There was so much more I could have said—the really tough things, the turbulent, irrational things he sometimes makes me feel.  But I held back because I was trying to get through to him, and not just hurt him like he's hurt me.  But it's obvious whatever I say, rational or not, doesn't matter.  Even Catherine's drunken ramblings have more impact than what I say.  I shouldn't be surprised—she was there in his place, the little hermetic sanctuary that he'd probably rather die than invite _me _into. Doesn't that just say it all?    

She wondered who brought it up first.  Grissom doesn't take me seriously, so it must have been Catherine.  Must have been worth a few yuks—here's crazy Sara at it again.  No doubt Grissom slammed her for being "too emotional." Cath may or may not have agreed with that, but she would still have pointed out that Sara was volatile enough to follow through on her plans.  He'd be losing a good CSI, and did he really want to go through the hassle of breaking someone else in?   _Do something; make a gesture. You could send her flowers or something. Come on, here's the number…_ Sara's throat tightened miserably.  You were going to just let me walk out, weren't you, Grissom?    I guess you answered my question at last. The problem here really is just about me.  

Too dispirited even to cry, she put her head in her hands.  After a long while, she lifted herself back up and looked back at the lab with dull eyes.  Finally she stepped outside and walked slowly toward the door.  


	3. Part III

****

Grissom stood uncertainly at the door to his office, considering whether to go in or continue looking for Sara.  He had peered into every room on his way down the hall but hadn't seen her.  He hated feeling so nervous, although he had felt little else since they last spoke.  And given the nature of that conversation, and Catherine's warning that Sara was really going to go away, he had reason to be.  Even ordering the plant had not done much to relieve his agitation.  Yes, he had done it, but he still had no idea what Sara planned to do or whether his gesture had had the desired effect.  It was only a plant after all, he cautioned himself, and he hadn't even said anything on the card.  He had hesitated so much over it because everything that came to mind as he stood there, all too aware that Cath was within earshot, seemed so foolish, so… inadequate.  So he fell back on what was safe, which was to say nothing—just that it was "from Grissom."  

He hoped sending the plant itself would be enough.  It would be for most women, he supposed, but Sara was so unpredictable.  Cath's encouraging expression during his call suggested that he was making the right move, but then Cath hadn't seen the look on Sara's face before she left his office.  She hadn't seen the terribly brittle smile she had mustered after he said the lab needed her...  But if we can just get past that, and back to that special smile she seems to save just for me, everything will be fine.  And when she sees the plant for what it is, she will smile because then she'll know.  Just like she always knew.  He was lucky that way.

OK, he nodded; I really need to find her.  

He figured she might be in the break room waiting for the shift to start and so he turned in that direction.  As he approached, he could see that no one was there.  But the plant was there, so he went in for a closer look.  When he placed the order the previous evening, he had simply asked for a living plant.  The clerk noted that the shop had some wonderful orchids available; Gil told him that would be fine.  He had been so distracted by his own nerves that he hadn't even thought to specify what kind of orchid he wanted, though.  But he needn't have worried; the man had chosen well—it was a lovely specimen, brilliantly hued.  _Phalaenopsis _was definitely his favorite—the moth's wing likeness was irresistible.  He knew the irony of his sending Sara this particular species would not have been lost on her.  He wondered what her first thought had been.  Where _is_ she, he wondered impatiently?  He turned abruptly to resume his search, and met her brown eyes through the glass door.

_Finally_. 

He crossed quickly to the door and opened it for her.  She came in slowly, eyes lowered, and moved next to the table on which the plant was sitting. Gil followed, stopping only when he had come very close to her.  He examined her face intently, noting how pale and tired she looked.  After a long moment, she said quietly, "Thank you for the plant. It's lovely."  Gil let out a relieved breath; he hadn't realized that he had been holding it in since she came in the room.  He gave her one of his rare full smiles.  

"It's _Phalaenopsis_—the famous "moth orchid."  They look fragile, but they're not, really.  Nothing truly fragile could have over 800 species and grow in nearly every climate in the world."  He stroked one of the leaves, gently. 

"Would you believe that some people think they're parasites of some kind?  Just because so many of them grow on trees.  But they don't take a thing from those trees--botanically speaking, they don't need to.  Their leaf and root structure makes it possible for them to absorb water directly and retain it much longer than most flowering plants.  Hence, their biological advantage."

He tilted his head toward her, with a twinkle in his dark eyes.  The biological advantage comment was the sort of thing that usually elicited a teasing reply from her, in this case probably some remark about his only liking _Phalaenopsis_ because it reminded him of his beloved bugs.  But she remained silent, not even looking at him.  He didn't understand.  What could be wrong?

"Hey," he said softly, "what's wrong?" 

"I wish I could get into your head, just once." 

She raised her head and finally met his eyes.

"Because maybe then I'd understand what you were thinking…what you were thinking when you needed Catherine to force you into doing something nice for me."  Sara paused, thoughtful.  "I've tried to imagine it, you know?  The two of you sitting there nice and cozy on your couch, discussing poor, troubled Sara.  She beats up on you a little, makes you feel guilty or something, and you just nod your woolly head.  And then it hits her, 'Flowers, or some kind of plant, that's what you need, Grissom.  Come on, I'll even call for you.'"

"What are you—that's not how it…"

"It's like you don't hear me at all.  There I was, in your office, telling you how I feel and it's like I'm not even there.  I'm just … background noise. Static, really."  She shook her head slowly. "Why is it that it took Catherine to get through to you?  Why aren't my words, my _feelings_ enough?"

He started to touch her, then pulled back.  

"They _are_ enough, Sara, but…I just didn't know how to react.  You caught me off guard and…I couldn't process it right away. I didn't mean to…" He faltered, feeling her eyes searching his own for something. 

Then he saw it, and his heart sank.  The same brittle smile.

" '_Process it_.'  Exactly.  Heaven forbid you should just deal with the feelings, like the rest of us.  You wanted to "process" them.  Well, news flash, Grissom.  That's not what _living_ is about.  You can't process it. All you can do is go out there and just experience it. It's…it's…" She searched for an example, and finally gestured to the plant. "It's like the plant.  Sure we can dissect it, analyze it and classify it to death, but in the end, it is simply what it is: this beautiful, living, breathing thing.  We don't have to figure it out, we just have to _let it in_."

She closed her eyes briefly.  "I don't expect you to understand.  But you need to hear it anyway.  Maybe some day, long after I'm gone, it'll help you figure it out."  

Sara moved to the door.  Grissom turned towards her, too stunned to speak.  By the time his mind cleared enough to offer a reply she was already gone.

****

Somehow, Grissom made it through the shift.   He mostly hid himself away in his office, away from Sara.  All he could think about was cornering her somewhere and forcing her to take back what she had said. But he knew that would be foolish.  Even if she would say she was wrong about him, he still didn't know what he could say to show her that he was right.  _Background noise.  Static_.  That's what she thought she was to him.  He couldn't understand how she didn't realize that the exact reverse was true: everyone else faded when she was near.  They were the static, not Sara.  He had always relied on the inexplicable connection they had to transmit to her things he could not say, but if she could really believe what she had said… If the connection was lost, what could he possibly say?

So he did the only thing he could.  He worked, even though her bitter words continued to echo in his mind.  When the shift finally ended, he had never been so glad to escape the lab in his life. Now that he was home, though, the stillness there just made things worse.  He paced aimlessly back and forth, growing increasingly frustrated.  Finally, he sat down at the table and tried to settle his mind_.  I'm a scientist, for God's sake; I ought to be able to figure this out.  What the hell happened?_

Things had been fine between us until recently.  I've always admired her mind, and I enjoyed working with her from the beginning.  I admit I was unnerved by her watchfulness at first; I don't like being scrutinized.  But I couldn't help but be fascinated by the way she applied the same sharpness and intuition she brings to evidence to me.   I could see her gathering the clues, trying to put the pieces together and solve the puzzle that invariably thwarts people who try to get close to me.  Frankly, I enjoyed her attentiveness.  It was flattering and it also seemed to free us from the tedious exchanges I end up having with most people because they can't figure me out.  Sara was already in my head, so we could skip right over the dull or awkward things.   She would just give me that look and off we'd go.  It made her so easy to be with.   Maybe too easy, since I didn't notice my attraction to her before I was in way over my head.  Suddenly I was talking about high altitude sexual euphoria, love bites and God knows what else.  

So we flirted for a while.  I don't think I realized that my feelings were more than that until we clashed over the Kaye Shelton case.  She was so disturbed by the victim's death, in a way I couldn't understand.  It was the first time I couldn't tell what she was thinking, which was so frustrating to both of us.  When she finally asked me if I wanted to sleep with her, I knew she was telling me that even if I did, I still wouldn't understand her. Our bodies would be together, but not our innermost selves.  I can't really describe how the thought of that made me feel.  I just knew I didn't want it to happen.  If she ever would turn to me in the dark, every part of us had to connect, body and mind.  So I went back and set up the experiment.  I told myself that I was just trying to help her find justice for the victim.  But then she sat down close beside me with the thermos, spread the blanket over my shoulders, and as I looked into her eyes I knew exactly what I was trying to do.

I felt closer to her after that, although I never said anything.  But then we worked another difficult case.  By now, I had figured out that something about female abuse cases really gets to Sara, although I still don't know why.  You would think I could handle her reaction to Pamela Adler better after Kaye Shelton, but I didn't.  I just came down on her for caring too much, and pushed her to find a way to care less.  I should have taken the risk of asking her why these kinds of victims trouble her so.  But I was too afraid. Afraid of what she might say, afraid that I would end up with another reason to become more entangled with her.  It is so much easier to attribute her constant presence in my thoughts to professional concern over her emotionalism than to admit the truth.  She said some harsh things to me that night. She was wrong; I do have feelings.  I just couldn't risk opening the floodgates because I didn't know I could survive what might come crashing down on us.

That same fear is why the way she touched my face was so hypnotic.  I was frustrated and angry, and she came outside to check on me.  She made a typically perceptive remark, just as she had earlier with the nine-dots-on-paper analogy that was just the clue I needed.  I was just standing there, starting to calm down, when she asked if I wanted to take a walk.  Her voice seemed odd.  Hesitant, tentative, not like Sara at all. Then she asked again.  I was still too wound up, though, so I turned her down.  My eyes were focused on the ground when I felt her hand on my cheek.  Our eyes met and I saw something that made me wonder… But then, too soon, she took her hand away.  I felt my face go hot, and then cold.  I put the back of my hand where hers had just been.

I decided it was best to assume that the touch was what Sara had claimed: a gesture to remove some dust.  If it weren't, why would she make up an excuse?  So I tried to forget it, albeit with little success.  When I was alone, I would feel her touch again and hear her voice reading the email from the Marks case. " '_I know it sounds weird, but my life began when I first heard your voice. When you said my name, it felt so right. Did you feel it too?'"_ We had exchanged a glance after she read it.  Then she had said something curious.  "_It's easy to wear your heart on your sleeve when you're not looking in his eyes_."  From my awkward vantage point, standing behind her, I stared at her for a long time afterward.  She had been looking in my eyes when she touched me that night.  Was that why she said it was just chalk?  She had reached out to me, but she was still looking in my eyes…

I thought of this contradiction often.  Sara was always so strong and bold that it rarely occurred to me that anything could slow her down.  I thought I was the fearful one, but maybe she was scared too.  I think we're both afraid; she's afraid of my saying no, and I'm afraid of her saying yes.  I was still working this out in my mind when Paul Millander came back and scrambled everything.  I was careful not to let the others see just how much his threats disturbed me.  I didn't want their sympathy; I just wanted Millander to go away, for good.  In the end, he did.  But as I stood there looking at his dead body, I knew his suicide just made it worse.  

I don't know what frightened me more: the thought that the threat had just been part of the game to him given that we shared the same birthday, or that my own life or death, in the end, depended on a psychopathic flip of the coin.  Heads, I kill Grissom; tails, I kill myself.   It hardly mattered how the coin landed, since the death of either of us would fulfill the same insane plan.  Millander was still the one pulling the strings, exercising control and deciding my fate.  I've spent a lifetime ensuring that I control everything around me.  It's how I've managed to survive.  And yet Millander wiped that out in the blink of an eye.  He was dead, but he had already transformed me into a victim.  Somehow, I had to get that control back. I had to restore the order that makes my life and work manageable. I had to close the door and not look back.

I kept to myself after that.  I did it to everyone on the team, but it was Sara that noticed it most.  I could feel her eyes on me, trying to figure out what was going on.  I avoided being alone with her, which would have given her the opening to ask me questions.  I made sure we didn't work together, and tried to ignore how lost that made me feel.  It was painful, but I did it—I'm nothing if not disciplined.  

Then, out of the blue, Cath disappeared outside the lab that night.  For the first couple of hours, I had no idea what had happened to her—she could have been dead already, a real friend that I'd known for ten years…. It was just too much.  I tried to just stick to the facts and keep it simple, but I was struggling inside.  I knew Sara could help make it easier and keep me focused, but for once I couldn't call her.  Not because it was her day off, I had called her on those days many times before.  I didn't call because I knew she was with someone else.  She had actually made a date with that damn paramedic.  Warrick said the guy had been pestering her to go out with him for weeks, but Sara kept turning him down.  Then she suddenly said yes, and tonight was the night.  

I shouldn't have been surprised. I should have been pleased.  She was out there, getting on with her life, instead of trying to solve the Gil Grissom puzzle.  She'd clearly gotten the message I had sent.  So why was I so hurt?  It couldn't be that I expected her to keep after me when I gave her no encouragement, even after she touched me.  I told myself that I couldn't expect it, but apparently some part of me still did. I decided that whatever she thought she felt for me did not really add up to much if she could move on so quickly, and the thought ate away at me.  So when she showed up at the lab with her hair done differently and wearing a shade of lipstick I had not seen before, I listened to her story about Cath and the finger dropped into the middle of her date in silence.  Our eyes met only briefly, when I could no longer avoid asking her a direct question.  Once she answered, I turned and walked away.  I didn't address her directly again during that case, and I brushed aside her attempts to reconnect with me in the weeks that followed.  It was just as well, I decided.  I didn't need any more complications in my life anyway. 

And now here he sat, alone and confused. It was almost funny how his efforts to hide were the very thing that had forced him into the open.  Kind of like a boomerang, he mused.  The harder you fling it away from you, the faster it whips back around.  He had flung Sara away to protect himself, but now he was more vulnerable.  He had increased the distance between them, but now they were on a collision course.  And he, the one who had set it in all in motion, had no idea what to do.    


	4. Part IV

*****

Grissom frowned.  How the hell Brass and Catherine managed to keep their balance was beyond him.  The long trek to the body had been treacherous for his bowed legs.  He shifted his weight forward and back on the ice, then right and left, taking small cautious steps.  He sighed.  This kind of situation was tailor made for one of Sara's saucy comments, the kind of teasing that invariably drew his eyes to hers and made them both smile.  But she wasn't by his side as he slithered toward the victim.  She was still on her way to the scene.  It wouldn't have happened anyway, Grissom brooded; he hadn't seen her smile in days.  In fact, he hadn't seen Sara at all since the scene in the break room.  The next day had been her day off, and Grissom himself was off the day after that.  He had spent that time thinking of her constantly, of course.  He had to get through to her somehow. She had turned away from him with so much finality when they last saw each other; he doubted that any carefully rehearsed speeches on his part would be believed.  She would probably think he had worked it all out beforehand with Catherine anyway.  He sighed again.

The three of them finally made it to the team bench area where the body had been moved.  Apparently the man was responsive enough to be taken off the ice after the pileup and moved to the bench for CPR.  There he lay, though, quite dead.  Grissom's mouth twisted slightly. Guess CPR wasn't designed to overcome the kind of gaping neck wound that dissected this guy's carotid artery.  Brass provided the background: victim found at the bottom of a pileup on the ice, taken to the bench, team doc tried CPR, but no luck.  Grissom leaned over for a better look. Catherine was right; the guy did look like he had taken a pounding from the other team.  They agreed that Cath would interview the players, and he would wait for Sara and then check out the ice.  As Cath walked away, Grissom looked up toward the stands.  He'd wait for Sara there, where he could think as he surveyed the scene.

He made his way to the seating section near center ice and climbed to the second tier.  Settling into a seat towards the middle of the row, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and chin on top of his clasped hands.  I have got to get a grip, he thought.  I'm so anxious about seeing her that I can barely focus on the crime scene.   Just relax; this can't really be the end for us.  Just then he caught sight of her, standing near the walkway that led from the players' locker room to the ice.  She looked around for a moment before she noticed where he was sitting.  She started walking around the oval down along the first row of seats, circling to his position.  He noticed that she was wearing the black watch cap that he liked.  He smiled. Only Sara could pull something like that off and still look beautiful.  He followed her progress with his eyes, taking in her tall frame in its sleek black jacket and pants.  Her head was bent toward the floor; she seemed to be lost in thought.  What are you thinking, little girl, he wondered.  

Sara moved stiffly towards Grissom, trying to delay the inevitable.  He was the last person she wanted to see right now, and she was sure he felt the same.  Why had he called her in on this case?  He could have easily assigned her to work with Nick on the jazz club death and spared them both the discomfort of working in close quarters after their last scene.  She grimaced the memory—apparently "scenes" were all they were good for these days.  When was the last time he and I had a normal conversation?  It was just as well that she had started making her preparations to leave—she couldn't take much more of this.  She had hoped to have something lined up before she officially started the leave of absence, but now she figured the sooner she got out of town, the better.  There had been a couple of promising listings on the FBI's website, and she'd sent an email request for more information yesterday.  Doing so had not given her any particular joy, but doing nothing felt worse.  She was sick to death of crying.

She worked to put a neutral expression on her face; she had arrived at the section in which he sat.  She climbed the steps slowly, feeling his eyes on her face, and keeping her own eyes trained on her feet.  Finally she reached his row, and looked up at him.  He stared at her for a second, and then said a quiet hello.  

"Hey," she replied evenly.  She maneuvered down the row and sat down on the other side of his silver case.

"How are you?" He knew it was a stupid question, but he couldn't think of anything better to say right then.

"Just dandy, Grissom." Sara turned to face the ice, her voice flat.  "So what's the deal here?"

"We've got a male vic in his early 30s.  Found unconscious at the bottom of a goal-line pileup with a large gash across his neck.  The team medics revived him briefly and took him to the bench to keep working on him, but he died a few minutes later.  Catherine's talking to the other players; you and I will do the crime scene."

Grissom paused.  He had turned to make eye contact with Sara during this explanation but she had kept her face averted, watching the ice as he spoke.  His mouth softened as he inspected her profile, tracing the line of her jaw and her high cheekbones with his eyes.  She was so lovely.  His pulse raced a little; he turned to the ice.

"Rough game, apparently. The victim was given two minutes for elbowing. Four minutes for high sticking. Ten minutes for un-sportsmanlike conduct. I don't get it. "

"Boys will be boys."  Sara responded dryly, sounding uninterested.

Grissom inclined his head skeptically. "Sounds like these boys went to a fight and a hockey game broke out." 

"You just don't like sports."

He felt the subtle challenge in her voice, and shrugged his shoulders lightly.  "That's not true; I've been a baseball fan my whole life."  He thought she knew that, just like she knew so much else about him without his having to tell her.  Wrong again, Grissom, he noted.

"Baseball. Well, that figures. All those stats." 

He heard the dismissive tone, and kept his eyes on the ice.  Wow, he thought.

"It's a beautiful game." 

"Since when are you interested in beauty?"  

His heart skipped a beat.

"Since I met you." 

He looked at her then.  She had swiveled her head towards his, clearly shocked.  He answered the question in her dark eyes with one of his own.  _You wanted inside my head, right?_  _What did you expect?_

"So, we'll start at the opposite goal, work our way across the blue line and stop at center ice," he continued smoothly as he turned back to the scene.  

Sara hadn't taken her eyes off him.  _Well_, she thought.  _Well_.  

"…Sure," she said slowly.  _If this is inside, don't ever let me out again. _

Then she stood and made her way silently down to the ice, reassured by the sound of his footsteps following close behind.

*****


End file.
